The Game Is A Footprint!
by Captain Arianna Trouble
Summary: Watson challenges Holmes to a modified game of Hide-and-Seek in the middle of London, with only logic to help him. Of course, a mystery soon follows. Based on a plot bunny.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes. That great honor falls to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

A/N: Based on a minor scene in Hound of the Baskervilles. I really couldn't get this plot bunny out of my mind, so here it is. (And, yes, my Watson voice isn't at all accurate and the boys are a little OOC. Please be forgiving and enjoy)

The Game is a Foot

_"No, Watson; I fear that I could not undertake to recognize your footprint amid all the footprints of the world. If-"_

My pen paused in the air as I reviewed the last line I had written. If Holmes noticed the sudden pause in my scratching he didn't show it; in the past hour of my writing he had been nothing more than a statue in his armchair, contentedly smoking from his pipe. He had occasionally, earlier in the evening, observed my drafts from over my shoulder. Seemingly satisfied (although I knew the final copy would no doubt receive some form of criticism) he left me to my scribing.

At the time of our adventure with the Baskerville Curse I had given little thought to Holmes' statement. In fact, I had been more pleased just to see my old friend. Yet in the safety of my own chair at 221B Baker Street, I couldn't help but take notice at this honest admission of my friend's inabilities. Normally, it was completely against his nature to reveal such a truth. Then again, he might have been bluffing, something he has done before with clients in order to hide the full powers of his ability.

"Is something amiss, Watson?"

"Not at all, my dear fellow," I hastily responded. An idea had sprung to mind, one that was as childish as it was tempting. "Just a small correction to my notes, that's all."

"More than a small correction, what with how long you have been still." A rustling of cloth alerted me to Holmes movement from his chair. I turned to face him, and saw that he had crossed to the mantle and the ever important slipper of tobacco.

"Well, it seems I recorded a conversation incorrectly," I said, trying to keep a smile from forming. "I mistakenly wrote that you cannot tell my footprints from the rest of the world."

Holmes stiffened, and it took all my power not to smile. Within a second he had regained his composure, but I already knew that I had irked him. As he nonchalantly added more tobacco to his pipe, he said, "Your records are correct. Your footprints are, on their own, impossible to decipher."

"Holmes, you have often astounded me by revealing private knowledge of my own mind, yet you cannot tell anything of my feet? I highly doubt that. More likely, you were bluffing."

A flash of irritation flew across that normally stoic face. I could tell I had truly hit a nerve when Holmes said, rather tersely, that he was not being false in his claim. Now I finally allowed the smile that had threatened to overtake me to appear on my visage.

"I suppose, then, that if I were to leave these rooms and wander the streets you would be at a loss as to finding me?"

"Hardly!" Holmes barked. "Watson, there are a variety of ways that I might be able to track you without even once having to resort to searching for footprints. My methods aside, I know all the various locales in which you are likely to be."

"Really?" I rose from my writing desk and headed towards the door. "Well, I suppose there is only one way to know."

"Watson, where are you headed?" Holmes asked. "You cannot be serious-"

"Homes," I interjected, "you have two hours. I just ask that you wait at least a quarter hour before pursuing me, for the sake of fairness."

With that, I quickly left 221B as fast as my feet would carry me, careful to avoid heading in one particular direction for too long. Although I hadn't given Holmes the chance to accept my challenge, I was already relishing the freedom of the chase. For once, I was being pursued, hunted, by Sherlock Holmes. Even if he refused to play my childish game, I would have a pleasant 2 hours of private exploration of London. If Holmes did follow me, I was certainly going to make it an interesting journey for him.

* * *

To be continued…despite cheesiness.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I am not Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. This is merely my own flight of fancy.

A/N: Thanks for the reviews! And I've only been to London once, so forgive any geographical errors.

The Game is a Footprint!

My first instinct was to recall all of the various lessons Holmes had ever given me when it came to tracking a criminal. Of all the insight he had given me he had also allowed me clues as to how to avoid detection. I took alternate routes over my usual trails, and walked near groups rather than on my own. Any passerby who might recognize me and give Holmes clues as to my whereabouts were ignored. Although it might risk a slight offence it was necessary to make my 'escape'.

Next, I focused on where in London I would make my final destination. As Holmes had pointed out earlier, he knew most of the haunts I was likely to go. The many parks where I might hide were also too dangerous to go, as natural earth would be far more difficult to disguise. What I needed to do was stick to paved roads, where answers would be unyielding.

I continued walking as I considered where to actually go. Occasionally I changed my stride, an attempt to further disguise myself from Holmes. I was well aware that it had been nearly half an hour since I had left Baker Street, and I very well could have the world's greatest unofficial consulting detective hot on my heels. The very idea spurred me on to go faster and farther.

When I had earlier passed the British Museum, I had quickly darted up the main steps. After waiting a short time I departed, although with my coat adjusted and my gait shifted. Leicester Square had proved another chance to confuse any witnesses by pretending to head further South while I actually went towards the East. Should Holmes make any interviews, the local shop owners would no doubt tell that I had gone towards the Thames.

That had been quite some time ago, and I decided that I needed to throw in another twist to get Holmes off the correct path. I had to try to think of what Holmes would think in this situation. Then, I had to do the opposite. There was no denying that no one knew my thoughts better than Holmes, and that meant I couldn't do what he would expect of me. After taking a few quick turns I saw a golden opportunity: a brick wall. Several crates had been haphazardly piled along it, providing a perfect set of steps. I knew Holmes would never suspect that I would hop a wall, so I decided that I must.

I was careful to make sure that no one saw me. Aside from giving me away, there was a slight chance that someone might call the police upon seeing a grown man scampering over a wall. If anyone had seen me I haven't the slightest idea what I would have told them in explanation. Fortunately, there was no need for false pretenses as I managed to haul myself over fast enough that I was unseen.

Dropping heavily on the other side, I took a few moments to get my bearings. I'd had a general idea as to where I was before, but now I was a little uncertain. If I was correct, this was the Towers Hamlet Cemetery. I had once been here for a funeral, yet I was not entirely sure where I was in relation to the main entrance that I had taken on that somber day. I knew well enough that following the wall would eventually lead me to an exit, so I headed along the stony barrier between the living and dead.

After walking for some time I began to worry that I was headed in the wrong direction. The wall formed a sharp turn a slight ways ahead, and I was unsure whether to follow the new one or turn back on the old. I debated for a moment before continuing on the path I had already started. It would hardly be fun to walk back down the same path I had taken for the past few minutes. The explorer in me wanted to go further into the unknown, and I was more than happy to oblige my wandering feet. I didn't know whether it was the sense of adventure or childishness, but my old war wound hadn't bothered me in the slightest in nearly an hour of walking and climbing. If nothing else, that small relief made my day entirely worth it.

Ahead of me I could make out a bench nestled between two trees. I stepped away from the wall to rest on it, deciding that if Holmes were to overtake me that I might as well be rested for the return journey to Baker Street. I checked my watch and was surprised to see just how much time had passed since I'd entered the cemetery. Between the leaves I could make out the faintest tinges of pink in the sky, a sign that my afternoon game had entered into the beginnings of evening. Although I didn't want Holmes to find me easily, I found myself wishing that he would appear so that I wouldn't have to make the journey back alone and through the dark. Yet if I had earlier offended Holmes and he never materialized then it might prove a very unpleasant trek back.

The minutes began to pass more slowly, and I let myself relax.

That is, until I heard a scream emanating from the center of the cemetery.

* * *

A/N: I don't think I've ever written an entire chapter without dialogue…Weird…


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I am not Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. If I was, I would not look this good in heels (just kidding!).

A/N: Thanks everybody! I'm glad to know you're enjoying my short story!

The Game is a Footprint!

I heard another scream following the first, and I quickly took off in the direction of the calls. By the sounds of it a young lady was in terrible trouble. I hurried along, making my way over low gravestones and other debris in an attempt to reach the distressed lady. In the now total darkness I tripped several times, and once received a good blow from a low limbed tree. Still, I continued in search of the screaming woman.

Although I didn't hear anymore outright screams, I could clearly make out the sound of sobbing coming from directly ahead of me. More precisely, the sobbing was coming from directly below me. Through the shadows I could make out a pit, and it took me a moment to realize that I stood before an open grave. I cautiously stood to the side and peered down. There, crying at the bottom of the steep sided grave, was a woman dressed in a bright dress. I couldn't say the color but it was stained with dirt from when the unfortunate lady must have tumbled in.

"Miss, are you unhurt? Here, I can help you out," I said, offering my hand down to the lady. I could hardly make out the bright oval of her face as she turned it towards me, so dark were the shadows of the grave. She eagerly took my hand, yet she kept one arm securely around some small parcel at her waist. It took a few good tries, but I managed to pull the unfortunate woman out.

"Are you-" I had meant to ask if the lady was safe but before I could utter another word the woman had turned her entire weight upon me, forcing me into the deep grave. I barely avoided breaking both my ankles upon landing and was quick to face the woman who had tricked me.

"That'll teach you, you dirty ruffian. Tell your fellows, those other brutes of your little gang, that I am through. Take your prize but leave me be!" The woman threw down her package, nearly hitting me in the face. I was so shocked by her statement that I hardly had a chance to argue before she ran off into the surrounding woods.

"Miss, there's been some mistake! Miss!" My cries were hardly helpful; it was quite clear from the quiet that the woman had managed to make her escape quite quickly. If she was no longer around and believed me to be some sort of criminal, then there was only one chance in my escaping the grave before morning. "Holmes! Holmes, are you there? Halloa!"

It was soon clear that no one was near enough to hear my calls. Or, if Holmes had indeed managed to follow me, he was not in the mood to rescue me from my current predicament. The dramatist might see it a fitting justice for forcing him to go running throughout all of London. I decided that I would simply have to call for help every few minutes, until I was eventually discovered. The walls of my tomb were far too high to climb, far deeper than the standard six foot grave, something I had noticed while pulling the lady out.

Since rescue seemed some time away, I decided to inspect the package that had gotten me down here in the first place. For whatever reason, it was valuable enough that the woman had been bothered for it by quite a few people, to the point that she would rather be rid of it than go through the ordeal of protecting it. Imagine my surprise when it was nothing more than a book, although in the darkness I couldn't make out any of the pages.

I went through my pockets and was fortunate enough to find some matches in my cigarette case. Carefully balancing the book on my knee, I lit one of the matches and brought it close to the cover. On the spine the name Kipling glowed in the poor light, and I could see The Phantom Rickshaw and Other Tales written on the front. I frantically turned through the pages, searching for whatever hidden message would make the common volume so valuable. Unfortunately, my match was quickly spent and in that time I had failed to notice anything unusual in the anthology.

As I fumbled for another match, I became aware of several figures standing at the lip of the grave. I could not tell any details of their faces, but I could still make out some details of their clothes and stature. One knelt and seemed to survey the grave before settling his gaze on me.

"Hello, in need of some help?" the stranger asked.

"Yes, I accidentally tripped and fell in," I lied. The young lady had mentioned a gang, and if these were the same group then I was loath to inform them of how I had truly made my way into the grave.

"Well, I'm sure me and the lads can help you get up. What's that in your hand? You should toss it up first, then we can get you out without its loss."

"I'm sure I can manage-" I was interrupted by a familiar click, one that I have found is distinct to a gun being cocked. Although I couldn't make it out too well, I could definitely see that a small pistol had appeared in the stranger's hand.

"I highly recommend you hand it over."

With nowhere to hide, I grudgingly handed over the dangerous text. The leader of the gang handed it off to one of his boys, who quickly took off with the others. He stayed a while longer, as if gauging whether or not I was enough of a threat to kill. I felt my legs tense up, ready to spring aside should the weapon discharge. However, the man disappeared with his gang into the darkness, leaving me, once again, alone in the grave.

For a few minutes I considered calling out for assistance, but I couldn't be sure if the hooligans had left. I tried to climb up the side of the grave but the dirt gave way, sending me tumbling back down. Rather than get back up I allowed myself a moment of defeat and frustration. My old wound had finally pained me and I was in no condition to make another attempt. Instead, I would just have to wait for someone to find me.

As the time passed, I tried to make sense of the strange happenings of the evening. All I could conclude was that the novel I had been given by the young lady was somehow far more important than its cover portrayed. An entire street gang had taken up the search for it and whatever mysteries it might hold. Now it was in their hands and I was inexplicably involved in the matter.

A chill went through my bones and I cursed myself for not having brought a better coat. If the temperature continued to drop and I wasn't found, I very well might meet my end in the grave. It was while I tried to light another one of my matches that I noticed I was no longer alone, as a tall figure was now looming over my grave.

"Well, Watson, I can't say I would have picked this as your hiding place."


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I am not Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Nor am I Dr. Watson. Deal.

A/N: Thanks for reviewing!

The Game is a Footprint!

"Holmes, thank goodness you've come!" I nearly laughed in relief. "I don't know how long I've been down here-"

"15 minutes precisely, Watson. If I am correct I have just met your time limit." Holmes stepped back from the grave and began to survey the ground. "It seems that you have not been alone. A young lady, of course, what else would get your attention? And then it would seem about four or five young men sometime after her leaving." The detective looked back down at me. "You have been busy tonight."

"And I will gladly tell you all if you help me out of this infernal hole!" Before raising my arms expectantly, I folded up the paper that had been used as wrapping for the Kipling book and stuffed it in my pocket. Although it was nothing but litter, it seemed in poor form to leave debris in an open grave.

Above me, Holmes had the audacity to light a cigarette and settle into one of his Buddha-like poses beside the grave. I sighed. The need of the dramatist had overcome the duties of the friend, and now I was subject to the consequences of my earlier actions. I could make out the details of Holmes' face by the faint red glow that grew with his breathing. It was enough for me to see the slightest of smiles on his face.

"Now that I have you as a captive audience, I'm certain you would love to hear the various processes with which I was able to find you."

"Holmes, I'm sorry, but this is no time for a long discourse. There is trouble at work here! A mystery to be solved!"

"First, I was out the door as soon as your fifteen minute head start was up. I could have waited longer, but the hotter the trail the faster the chase. If you thought entering the museum would somehow distract me you were mistaken. Indeed, I bypassed the entrance entirely as I knew you had doubled back. The same for Leicester Square. I was surprised when I saw how far you had managed to go, and I will admit that I was almost foiled when your trail seemed to stop completely at the wall. I hardly believed that you, my dear Watson, would actually climb over the wall and risk trespassing for the sake of your little game. And yet, as soon as I scaled the wall, your trail was as plain as day. It was almost like you gave up, leading me quite plainly to your hiding hole."

"I am not in here voluntarily. Now, please, lend me a hand."

"First, why is it that neither the lady nor the boys assisted you before?"

"The 'lady' is the one who landed me in here and the 'boys' are the ones who robbed me at gunpoint."

The cigarette fell in surprise. Holmes lanky fingers had grabbed hold of my shoulders and managed to haul me up quite quickly, despite the awkwardness of his grip. His fingers brushed over my person, checking to make sure that I was indeed whole and unhurt.

"Watson, why did you not say so before? Clearly I have misjudged the seriousness of the situation. A hundred apologies. Now, what precisely happened during your quarter hour in the grave?"

I quickly told Holmes how I had come across the lady and how, mistakenly, she had given me the mysterious book and left me trapped. I then explained that the group of men had come along and demanded the volume from me. The rest of the narrative Holmes knew from there.

"You inspected the book?"

"Yes."

"And you saw no signs of tampering? No hidden documents, no circled words?"

"Not a one. Before I had the chance to light another match the brutes had taken it from me. I cannot promise that there was nothing there."

"Then we shall have to recover it. I fear, however, that we may have to travel backwards and first find the lady who gave you such a fateful text. If nothing else she does owe you an apology."

We managed to follow the paths taken by both the woman and the group fairly easily until we reached the cemetery entrance. At that point, the two paths had diverged, with the lady heading one way and, as we soon discovered, the gang had taken some form of cart away from the scene. This left us with the option of finding the young woman, as even Sherlock Holmes couldn't ensure that we would follow the correct wheel marks.

Even in the darkness Holmes skills proved incredible, finding the path taken by the mysterious lady with ease. He occasionally stopped by storeowners, using mundane chatter to determine whether the lady was local or foreign and soon we found ourselves outside of a small housing unit in which the lady was said to live. Before I could object, Holmes dragged me inside, where I came face to face with the lady who had so deviously tricked me.

"It's you!" the lady cried, cringing away as though I were some sort of monster. "Get out of my home!"

"It seems, miss, that there has been a severe misunderstanding earlier this day. Might I introduce you to my good friend, Dr. John Watson?"

"Ha, and I am Miss Jane Austen, then? I know your type," the lady said bitterly, eyeing me sharply. "Just because you're older than those other troublemakers doesn't change your nature."

"Might I suggest you put on your glasses before making such a harsh judgement?" Holmes interjected. The woman seemed surprised.

"How did you know I wear corrective lenses?"

"For I am Sherlock Holmes! Now, if you'll please, sit." As he has so often done, Holmes had quickly taken control of the situation and twisted it into his favor. "We came in the hopes of learning the secret of your novel."

"I-"

"And your name, Miss-?"

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry. Yes, my name is Molly Rhodes, and I work as a secretary at the local bookshop. It is simple work, and I often get the first chance at new arrivals. Such was the case with Mr. Kipling's latest. I can hardly even call it mine," Ms. Rhodes said. "It had only arrived earlier today, although some of the larger outlets had received it some weeks ago."

"Then the book is not rare?"

"Not in the slightest."

"And it was not the only one received?"

"It was a small shipment, but I picked this one up at random. Yet no sooner had I left the shop than a young thug tried to take it off me. Thankfully a constable was near and kept the brute away. But since that failed attempt my entire day has been full of similar occurrences."

"These have since stopped since you passed the volume along, correct?"

"Yes. Oh!" Ms. Rhodes threw her hands to her face and looked suddenly appalled. "Dr. Watson, I am terribly sorry! As Mr. Holmes has noted, I was not wearing my glasses and honestly mistook you for one of those young brutes before. They had managed to corner me in that cemetery, and in those terrifying moments I forgot that there were still decent men around."

"Yes, being threatened can change one's mindset," Holmes said dryly. "Watson has often been mistaken for young rogues-"

"It is no problem at all. I was soon freed, as it was," I said hastily, seeing the genuine emotion on the poor lady's face.

"Did you find what made that particular volume so special? Have you it now?"

"Unfortunately, the same gang that made a habit of chasing you managed to secure it." Holmes stood up quickly, and headed for the door. I muttered some thanks as I hurried after him. Although Holmes manners might fall lax during an investigation, I was certain to make up for it. Ms. Rhodes, for her part, kept offering her apologies as we rushed out the door.

* * *

A/N: I hope you're all happy. This fic was only meant to be 3 chapters!


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes…That about says it all.

A/N: Thanks for all the lovely reviews! And thanks to KCS for pointing out my 'miss'-take ;)

The Game is a Footprint!

Holmes had taken off quickly from Miss Rhodes' home, leaving me sprinting to catch up with him. I was clueless as to where we were headed although it was clear we would get there soon. Indeed, we hadn't travelled far when Holmes stopped in front of a small bookshop, no doubt the one in which Miss Rhodes was employed. The interior was dark and the establishment had clearly closed much earlier, but I knew if there was evidence within a simple lock would not keep out Sherlock Holmes.

Fortunately, it seemed that Holmes had already gathered what little information he needed. The shine in his eyes made it quite clear that he was hot on the trail to solving this most peculiar mystery.

"Watson, have you ever heard of the Two Penny Gang?" When I answered in the negative Holmes laughed. "I expected as much. They are a new, small criminal organization. Hardly worth investigation as they have neither the brains nor numbers to cause much trouble. Yet if I'm correct they are attempting to rise within the ranks of the criminal order."

"And a book of children's adventures will help them to do this?"

"Something within those fanciful pages holds the answer. No doubt the gang has somehow been commissioned by a more powerful agent, one unable to act on his own in this matter." He began to walk down the street, making careful note of the various shop signs. "Although the general public knows nil of them, I am somewhat more informed. Enough to know that, as this is their so-called territory, their meeting place is nearby."

Once again we were racing down the streets, although this time there was a sense of urgency that had been lacking before. The clean storefronts gave way to the more rundown and derelict buildings. Shadows began to appear in doorways and corner, wrapped heavily to protect their appendages from the cold and their identities from the police. I noticed the change in Holmes immediately. His proud back was slumped, his head down, playing the part of another man down on his luck. Not for the first time I envied his ability to blend in with his surroundings, as it left me sticking out to all the local pickpockets. Thankfully we soon entered a small tavern, one that looked only slightly more welcoming than the dark street outside.

Generally, in the course of an investigation, tracking down the criminal is as difficult as determining who they are. This was not the case. As Holmes had said earlier, the gang in question was rather new and not too bright. Whereas most thieves would hide their plunder in a hidden safe-house these ruffians were occupying an entire corner of the establishment, the book visible for all to see. Although most of the pub must have been unaware as to the significance of the novel, for those who knew of its importance it was in a precarious position. Resting on the edge of a table, surrounded by five guards who were all already inebriated in celebration of victory, the book was an easy grab for someone with the experience of Sherlock Holmes.

My friend easily approached the table unnoticed, as it sounded like the men were all arguing over some trifling matter. Pretending to take a fall, Holmes deftly grabbed the book as he regained his balance and pulled himself up. None of the brutes took notice of the incident, and soon Holmes was back by my side heading for the pub's exit.

Our escape was almost perfect, had not the leader of the Two Pennys (the same one who had earlier threatened me) noticed the absence of the anthology. The loss of his prize had instantly sobered him, and it was unfortunate that his now clear eyes managed to spy Holmes and mine retreating figures. His fellows were less quick to recover, and we managed to make it to the street before half of the younger men had managed to find a way out of their chairs.

Holmes and I flew down the streets to get away from the gang. The journey I had earlier made in jest was now reversed in a dangerous irony. We occasionally cut through small alleyways, the likes of which Holmes knew as well as the average citizen might know the train schedule. We had the advantage on our side and I knew that there was no chance of the gang chasing us all the way to Baker Street. However, we did not stop running until the front door of 221B was securely fastened.

Almost immediately Holmes set to work tearing through the book. He studied everything possible, from the pages to the type font. He continually listed the brand of paper and unique color of the cover as he searched for whatever clue the strange novel had to offer. Finally, he took to perusing every page. Unfortunately, there were too many pages for the expedience the task called for and Holmes threw the book to the floor. I recovered it and began reading myself. It was only a hundred or so pages, yet whatever was hidden had been hidden incredibly well. No passages stuck out as unusual, the prose was consistent, and I personally could note to errors that might carry a message.

"Watson, your little adventure has turned into an infuriating problem! There is no sign in the book as to an obvious plan, leading one to conclude that it is being used as a cipher. The gang most likely stole that volume simply because it seemed easier than pocketing a copy from within the store. Yet they went through great lengths to get this copy only, when Miss Rhodes indicated that it would be available at any common book shop."

As Holmes picked up the book for closer examination I began to make myself comfortable. I knew that such a mysterious problem would keep his mind occupied, and had better make myself at home with a book of my own. With surprise I rediscovered the wrapping the book had come in within my pocket, something I had forgotten about in the excitement of the night. It was when I tossed the old parchment onto the table that Holmes suddenly spoke up.

"What is that, Watson?"

"This? It's the packaging of that troublesome little book. I could hardly leave it in someone's grave."

"Bring it here." I silently handed over the thick paper, only to receive a hearty bark of laughter in response from Holmes. "Have you had this the entire time, Watson?"

"Yes. What is it, Holmes?"

There was a gleam in his eye as he held up the wrapping to the fire. "The cipher, Watson, is not in the book. It is _here_!"

* * *

A/N: I don't think there was or is a Two Penny Gang. If there was, this is an entirely different one.

Hope you like the cheesy plot twist!


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